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November 22, 2007


I have painted this poem on a Bird Box provided by David Morley. I sanded the box and painted it on with part-oil part-Acrylic freehand. I also decorated the box (which I inteligently did not photograph) with some dubiously scaled native birds. The final coat of varnish was ill-advised as it smudged the oil remenants but it still looks ok. It will be up somewhere on campus at some point. 

Linnet, we

fall up onto the arms.

The sky feast


where our man makes seeds.

For our children the seeds,

and here in the vale

we spit into their mouths.

Quick the

drop eyed dew pecked


Trill into the arms,


eat us up

and exhale the songs.

Rustle flit woken

into the sharp day

and holds

the little branches.

The flights fall away

from the downed chests,

Dipped into air and rising,

elastic, a winged sea.

They go;

the singers of the light,

the singers of the dark.

The winged sea flooding,

drenching the gables

and bristling the fields:

the worm-lookers.

Man cuts and turns the clods

and the flock floods the rows

and unsown soil.

Flights fold and expanding

England dilates

under their wings.

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